


To the last of the days

by esama



Series: (Don't) Fade Away [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, inFAMOUS (Video Games)
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Don't copy to another site, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:21:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27779044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esama/pseuds/esama
Summary: "Do you believe in predeterminism?"
Relationships: Desmond Miles & Kessler (inFAMOUS)
Series: (Don't) Fade Away [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2048618
Comments: 78
Kudos: 818





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Proofread by nimadge, many thanks  
> This is written entirely from Desmond's pov so it should be relatively easy on people who are new to InFamous.

It's a quiet night, and the bar is empty. It's a Thursday, and there's nothing much happening – no big news in the business and stock exchange world, and what few sports events are going on don't usually interest the regular clientele of Bad Weather. So it's just Desmond, idly cleaning tables and rearranging things to pass the time, enjoying the chance of picking his own music for a change. There's no one there but him, and it's just an hour to closing time – no one will mind if he does way off Bad Weather's classical jazzy brand with something a bit more spirited.

As much as he enjoys the busy days and the days when he has someone to talk to around the bar, he enjoys these kinds of quiet days too, with nothing going on. When it feels like the outside world is a distant, removed place with no effect on him, and it's just him and the dark walls, hardwood flooring, and the overly heavy front door that blocks out the sounds of late evening traffic is a shield between him and everything else. Tomorrow he'd probably wake up with that profound sense of dissatisfaction again, but that would be tomorrow.

Upturning the chairs to get them out of the way, Desmond hums along the music, and for a little while it feels like it's all good, it's all fine. He's just cleaning his workplace, he'd mop the floors, and for one night that would be enough for him.

And of course that's when someone comes in, coat hood pulled up and dripping. Hiding his disappointment, Desmond fishes out the remote to the audio setup and turns on the usual playlist, switching from techno back to smoky blues. 

"Bad Weather," the guy says, with a voice like gravel.

Desmond smothers a snort, eyeing the ring of water already forming around the guy's feet. "Yeah, looks like it," he agrees and puts away the mop. "Something hot to warm you up?"

"This place – it's the Bad Weather?"

Desmond arches his brow. He's an older guy, in his sixties, seventies maybe – and he was making an intentional pun? Nice. "That it is," Desmond agrees and goes around the bar to wash his hands. "So, can I get you anything?"

The hooded guy looks around, and Desmond tries to fit an archetype on him. The coat is a bit… off. White, hooded, long, with trailing belts and straps – it kind of looks like something he'd expect to see on the younger model and actor types that sometimes hung around with the rich business types. It doesn't look exactly like high fashion, though – it looks a bit old, a bit worn. Hmm. The clothes under it look a bit off too. There's two rows of three enormous baubles on the front of his, uh, sweater? Whatever you'd call it. Could be another jacket. It's weird, anyway. The guy also has a metal prosthetic hand, and it was definitely built to look cyberpunk.

Fashion designer maybe?

"Irish coffee," the guy says eventually and steps closer to the counter.

"Will take a moment," Desmond admits. "Have to make some coffee."

"I have all the time in the world," the old guy says with a smile that looks the farthest from mirthful, and with a hum to hide the sudden uncomfortable shiver running down his back, Desmond turns away to make it. It's a long, tense silence that the softly crooning blues singer does nothing to alleviate, as he makes the guy his drink, serving it on a Bad Weather coaster.

The client lifts it with his metallic hand, so… definitely high-end prosthetic, that one.

"So, what brings you to this part of the city at this time of the night in this kind of weather?" Desmond asks, trying to break the tension.

"Bad weather," the guy says and takes a drink. "Have you ever been to Empire City?"

"Passed through it once," Desmond admits, folding his arms. "Bad weather there too?"

"The worst, eventually," the old guy says, setting the glass down and then looking at him, his pale gaze scrutinizing. "I used to live there. The place is going downhill, more and more every year."

"Sorry to hear it," Desmond says, not sure what his role in this discussion is. Does the guy just want someone to talk to, or… what? The close staring is kinda creeping Desmond out, like he's suddenly under a magnifying glass. "Is that why you left it?"

The old guy narrows his eyes.

"You're in New York, so you must've left Empire City, either for a while or for a longer time," Desmond shrugs and turns to find something to busy his hands with. "Did you leave it because it kept going downhill?"

A laugh, deep and just as mirthless as the guy's smile. "Yes, I did," he agrees. "It was all coming down to rubble, and I left before it could ruin me too."

"Sounds like a story, that," Desmond comments while doing the cliché bartender thing and starting to polish glasses, pointlessly – they've all been washed. "You wanna tell me about it?"

"Not particularly," the guy says. "You wouldn't understand, not yet."

Ominous. "You think New York is going downhill too?" Desmond asks, amused.

"It will," the guy says, and his voice is bitterly nostalgic. "It's along the way."

Yeah, definitely ominous. "Alright, then," Desmond says, glancing at him and then turning his eyes to the glass. "How will New Work go down?"

"The Beast will bring it to rubble," the old guy says simply. "The Beast will be born in Empire City, and then go through every town between Empire City and New Marais, killing millions along the way."

Desmond's hands still, and he looks up from the glass, meeting the old guy's eyes over his glass of Irish Coffee. "Okay," Desmond says slowly. "That sounds bad. This is like, what, the biblical Beast? End of days type? Rising from the sea and all that?"

The old guy laughs again, and it sounds even worse. "No, and yes," he agrees. "Do you believe in predeterminism?"

"Can't say I do," Desmond admits warily.

"I didn't either," the old guy says. "But it's become a fact of existence. When something is Seen, it will Be, no matter how we struggle against it. I Saw the Beast and I struggled against its existence, did all in my power to prevent it, and in so doing I ensured it would come into existence, and earlier than it should. What was a process of years will happen in the matter of days now – and it's partially, largely… my own doing."

… right, okay. Not a fashion designer then – a cult member. Or some kind of religious zealot… person. Maybe even the leader of whatever crazy nonsense he's into. Great.

The old guy looks at him like he can tell what Desmond is thinking. "It's not magic, or faith, or religion. It's science, only of a type woefully under-researched. Time. What do you think time is?"

Desmond shakes his head. "Past, present, future," he says, a little curious despite himself. As much as he hates cult-type crap on principle, there's something morbidly fascinating about it too, how these kinds of people think, how they justify their completely batshit beliefs.

"Accurate, if ultimately a shallow way of putting it," the old guy muses and looks away, towards the Jukebox. "Is this a playlist?"

"Um, yeah?"

"What song comes next?"

"Autumn Leaves," Desmond answers, tilting his head, wondering where this is going.

"You knew that by predeterminism," the old guy announces, smiling. "You are thus a seer."

"... No, I knew it because I've listened to this playlist a million times and have it pretty much memorised," Desmond says slowly.

"Which makes you a very limited type of a seer indeed, but tell me – why does it make a difference that it's a playlist you knew? The song was still predetermined – and what is it predetermined by are the songs that came before, right?"

"... Or by whoever made the playlist," Desmond comments slowly. In this case, by Mike.

The old guy points a finger at him. "Very good – _exactly_. That's it exactly."

"Sure, but that's like saying I know the future because I know my work schedule for the next two weeks, or like a holiday I booked for next Christmas is destined and predicted because I know the time it happens."

"And what is wrong with that?" the old man asks, giving him a piercing look.

"It's – setting a schedule, setting your own schedule, isn't the same as knowing the future, or the future being set in stone. Maybe there's an accident and I can't go on the holiday, maybe I get sick and can't come to work," Desmond points out. "What happens to predeterminism then?"

"It becomes a subject to chance and probability, which are their own branches of time," the old man says with a dismissive wave of his hand and picks up his glass again. "Do you understand the concept of predeterminism now?"

"I'm starting to feel like what you call predeterminism and what the philosophers call predeterminism are two very different things," Desmond snorts. "But I think I get what you're going for. Past determining the future and all that."

"No – the present," the old guy says. "Present determines the future. Your schedule, the schedule of those around you, the intentions you have upon your future – and where those intentions clash with others. These are the threads that form the tapestry of our shining forth dimension, _time_."

Desmond shakes his head, amused. "Honestly, that just sounds like free will with extra steps," he says.

The old guy snorts at that. "You scoffed at the idea that knowing a schedule could be called knowing the future," he comments. "Why?"

"Because – if you plan to do something, you can't then turn around and exclaim you by foresight know what is going to happen. That's just you doing a thing you planned to do," Desmond says, shaking his head and trying to find something else to occupy his hands with. "That's like the poorest magic trick ever."

"And yet you still know a part of the future to some degree," the old guy says and finished his drink, setting the glass down. "And other people know parts of their own future. It's not magic – it's not foresight, it's planning ahead, future orientation."

"And therefore _not_ predeterminism at all," Desmond comments.

The old guy tilts his head, conceding the point. "And if you knew everyone's plans, everywhere, all the time?" he asks.

Desmond hesitates. "What, like, by superpower?"

"Let me phrase that," the old guy says and considers. "If you knew where thousands of decisions by hundreds of people would lead, the final conclusion of dozens, _hundreds_ of years of work… then wouldn't the decisions, the work, seem as though predetermined?"

"... Uh," Desmond answers, eloquently. "Pretty sure that's not how _anything_ works. Also that would be actual foresight, if you could know ahead of time that something happened, right? I thought we weren't talking _magic_ here."

The old man hums at that, starting at nothing. "No, we're talking _science_. Time. There are different angles you can view time from. From present, looking ahead and trying to determine what will happen, and from present looking back, into the past, seeing all the threads that lead to the present. But time isn't only what we can view of it. Time is a dimension, it is a space – as much as it is something that is happening… it is also something that has already happened. Our present and future both, from a distant viewpoint, they are all things that have already happened – and the decisions we are still making are predetermining things that have already happened, sometime in the future."

Desmond stares at the man, not sure he's keeping up anymore. Predeterminism doesn't even sound like a word anymore. "Talking like a true time traveler," Desmond says with a snort. "Can I have this week's lottery numbers?"

The old guy blinks and turns to look at him. For a moment he looks almost insulted – but then he lets out a laugh that sounds like it's coming from a grave in a vampire movie, and holds out his hand – his metal right hand. "Kessler," he introduces himself.

"Desmond."

They shake, and quietly Desmond marvels how the guy's hand moves – is definitely artificial, and yet it moves almost like normal hands, fingers flexing and everything. It's creepy and cool at the same time – much like the guy himself.

"So, was you coming to this bar predetermined too?" Desmond asks and nods to the glass. "Do you want another?"

"I'll have a rum, straight up," Kessler says, watching him. "And yes, as much as my planning to come here can be called predeterminism. Timing could have been better."

"I don't know – coming to Bad Weather to escape bad weather sounds like kismet to me," Desmond grins, getting the guy a glass and pouring him a shot of rum.

"I am cutting things close," Kessler admits, taking a drink and grimacing. "It wasn't part of my plan – you weren't part of my plan. I learned of your existence almost too late, and interfering now might not change anything – or it might change everything. I don't know, but I can't risk not trying. Inaction might be worse than the alternative."

And now the guy is back to being creepy, awesome. "Okay," Desmond says slowly. "Right – I suppose I have something to do with your Beast, then?"

Kessler looks up and hums. "Everything," he agrees. 

"Great, wonderful. Assuming I'm not the Beast itself, which I think I would maybe know… what's my role then? Do I bring forth the Beast? Do I need to _repent_?" Desmond asks, grinning a little, unable to help himself.

Kessler scoffs. "I'm not a religious cultist," he denies flatly.

"Aha, but you _are_ a cultist?" Desmond asks, arching his brows.

"Not one you would know," Kessler says and takes another drink, watching him closely over the brim of his glass. "Both the Assassin Brotherhood and the Templar Order are older and enjoy, shall we say, more _legitimacy_ than the First Sons. Our ethos is somewhat from the left field, and we have a vastly different goal in mind than their ancient war over who gets to control humanity."

Desmond just stares at him silently, feeling the blood draining from his face.

"I'm sorry, should I have softened the blow a little?" Kessler laughs, shaking his head. "Believe me, it hardly matters anymore. Your cover was blown yesterday, when you went to get your driver's licence and agreed to a blood test – it wasn't drugs they were testing for, but for your DNA."

"I'm – _what_ , how do you know –"

"My interest in you has little to do with what they want with you, I couldn't care less about your lineage," Kessler muses. "The past of your bloodline is utterly inconsequential in comparison to what you will _do_ in four months."

"... And that is?" Desmond asks, feeling as though his blood had been replaced with ice.

Kessler takes a drink. "That's my issue," he says and looks at him, eyes steady and piercing. "I don't know. All I know is that something will _change_ in four months. I know your name came up in a prophecy from the turn of the 16th century. And you have one of the strongest expressions of the Conduit gene I have seen."

Desmond shakes his head, wondering. The guy is kinda talking crazy, but at the same time, how the hell does he know about the Assassins…? "Conduit, what's that?"

"A concept that will become very widely known in a handful of months, but currently only manifests itself as mild psychic abilities," Kessler harrumphs, shaking his head. "In four months something changes, and you, Desmond, will be right in the middle of it."

"Okay," Desmond says dubiously. "And you know that, because you're from the future, _sure_. I believe you. So, I'm assuming, I should not do this thing that you think I will do in four months?" he asks and then shrugs. "Okay, right – I will schedule something else, and predeterminism can kiss my ass. That work?"

Kessler laughs and it sounds honestly amused this time. "If only," he says and takes a drink. "If only. As it is, I don't want you to avoid your predetermined destiny, whatever it will be – we need Conduits to come into existence. But perhaps, knowing what is to come… you can do it without dooming humanity."

"... I'm sorry, what? I'm _dooming humanity_ now?"

Kessler shrugs. "You tell me," he says and gives him a look. "Are you?"

Desmond eyes him incredulously and then shakes his head. "You're one crazy son of a bitch," he says, and it comes out a little impressed, despite everything. "Whatever you're selling, I'm not buying it, sorry. Really interested about what you know about Assassins and Templars though."

"Not as much as you will, soon," Kessler says and then leans back, taking something from his pocket – a notebook and a pen. He writes down two strings of numbers and then rips the page out, handing it over.

Desmond frowns, accepting it slowly. The bottom string of numbers is a phone number – the other… "You're kidding me," Desmond says flatly.

"When I came back in time, I prepared. Unfortunately, I overshot my intended date, and by now these little useful titbits aren't so useful to me," Kessler says. "The cons of using them outweigh the benefits now. But they certainly work well as proof. You only have a day to make arrangements – I suggest you make use of it."

Desmond scowls and lowers the paper a little. "What happens after that?"

"If predeterminism is bullshit… nothing," Kessler says and straightens his coat. "You'll be able to reach me on that number when you want to talk – but only once. I suggest you memorize it and then destroy it – when time comes, you will want to reach me, and it would be a shame if I had to disconnect the line before then due to the line being compromised."

Jesus Christ, the guy is for real? "What happens in four months?" Desmond asks, frowning. 

"I don't know," Kessler admits, obviously making to leave. "Not yet. Perhaps I will, when you make that call."

"That's – hold on," Desmond says and then laughs. "This is a joke, it has to be – it's a joke, right?"

Kessler gives him a look. "And you were doing so well before," he says, disappointed, and with that said, he walks out.

Desmond stares after him incredulously as the bell on the door jingles, shaking his head. "What the fuck?" Desmond murmurs and looks down at the paper he's been left holding. They certainly… look like lottery numbers, but… surely not? Even if the guy somehow knew the winning lottery numbers, he wouldn't just give them up like that… right? No one would. They'd keep them for themselves. _Right_?

Then the realisation hits. Kessler had just smoothly bailed out without paying for either of his two drinks.

"Oh, you _motherfucker_ ," Desmond says, and snorts, begrudgingly impressed. "Well played, old man. Well played."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for casual mention of canon typical animal trial of questionable morality. Also cults.

It's almost three months later that Desmond punches in the phone number. It's not for the lack of interest in calling Kessler. He's had that going for him every day since he watched the lottery numbers come up on the screen match perfectly the ticket in his hand – only to immediately after be kidnapped with no chance in hell of actually cashing the ticket in. Hell, Vidic had even let him keep the thing, just to rub it in, and it had sat in his pocket during the captivity, a constant reminder that somewhere someone _knew._ And Kessler would've had to know, right? Why else did he give him the numbers in the first place?

But there had been no opportunity to call. Days spent in captivity by the Templars with no means of contacting the outside world. Then weeks in hiding, with the Assassins not trusting him anywhere near a phone, not even when he proved himself and got his hands dirty. Then, weeks of coma. And finally, days in a cave with no signal.

It's only once Bill has the use for him in recovering one of the Grand Temple power sources, one of probably many, that Desmond gets a phone with enough of a connection to make a call. Except that the phone he's given is bugged all the way to hell, of course, Desmond can almost see the tabs Rebecca and Shaun have on him, so… he'd pickpocketed some guy on his way up the stairs to their shiny hotel rooms, and that's the phone he uses – while sitting on the balcony, with his assassin-issued phone sitting in his room, playing jazz music a little too loudly.

The phone rings for an agonising twenty seconds before someone answers, and says nothing, barely breathing in the other end.

"It's Desmond," Desmond says after a long, quiet moment, watching the city lights, listening to distant sirens. "You better not have given me a fake number, Kessler, because man, I paid for your drinks out of my own pocket, you should be nice to guys who buy you drinks."

"Ahh," the guy says and yeah, it's definitely him, just the sigh alone is full of gravel. "I thought you had lost the number by now – I honestly expected you to call sooner."

"I would've, but I was a bit busy being kidnapped and then in hiding, and then I was in a coma for a bit," Desmond admits wryly. "This is the first chance I've had to make a call pretty much since we met."

"How exciting. Where are you now?"

"Back in New York, just for a while," Desmond answers and blows out a sigh. "You knew, didn't you? You knew this would happen to me."

Kessler hums. "I'm afraid you will have to elaborate – all I knew was that Abstergo was going to be sending a hit squad to kidnap you, and that they would be in New York in short order," he says.

"And you didn't think to fucking warn me about it?" Desmond asks flatly, wishing he still had the fury of the first few days when he'd first realised.

"Predeterminism," the old guy rumbles, and it, honest to god, sounds like the asshole is enjoying himself. "I knew whatever would happen _had_ happened and would be an integral part of what would follow. I didn't _dare_ to intervene."

"Yeah, fuck you too, buddy," Desmond sighs, his eyes drawn to the movement on his left. Running a hand over his face, Desmond looks away. "I don't even know why I'm calling you, you're obviously a dick."

"It has been said," Kessler agrees with a deep chuckle. "What happened, Desmond? What did they do to you?"

Desmond lets his hand drop, and for a moment he's stricken with the realisation that… no one had asked him that. Everyone knew, of course, but no one _said_ anything, they just… sort of assumed everyone was on the same page and so nothing more needed to be said. And if Desmond had any actual feelings about any of it, well… like his dad said, there were more important things going on, and he needed to grow up.

Kessler is obviously some kind of bad guy – but at least he seemed honestly interested. And it's enough to bring Desmond up short and catch his breath. How messed up is that?

"You knew they wanted me for my ancestral DNA, right?" Desmond asks quietly. "You know about the Animus?"

"Yes," Kessler agrees simply.

"I'm three ancestors deep, now – fourth on the way," Desmond says. "And I got the mental state to prove it. They wanted to see stuff my ancestors saw, to find out where they hid some other stuff. So I relived some lives, and… and had a mental breakdown."

"Long sessions in the Animus, then," Kessler agrees thoroughly. "I imagine you're still experiencing the effects. Hallucinations? Awareness issues? Confusion?"

"Oh yeah," Desmond agrees, glancing at the ghostly spectre of Altaïr, who's sitting on the balcony railing. "Not so bad after the coma, though – I did a thing that, I guess, tied up a couple ancestors with a neat bow, haven't confused myself for them since then, though I still see 'em. New ones are being a bit of an issue now."

"Then repeat whatever you did in the coma."

Desmond snorts at that, and it sounds tired even to his own ears. "Yeah, I don't think I'm going to live long enough for that, to be honest."

On the railing, Altaïr stands up and then leaps off the building.

Kessler is quiet for a long moment, and in the background Desmond can hear something creaking, a chair maybe. "Right, then. The event, you see it coming."

Desmond snorts. "I see a big old human sacrifice altar waiting for someone to spill some blood on it, and I think it's going to be mine. My DNA is _special,_ apparently."

"Ah," Kessler says. "And where is this altar? In New York?"

Desmond snorts. "Yeah, smack dab in the middle of Times Square," he says and sighs. "No can do. Gotta keep it secret. Because, you know, the _event_ , the thing I'm going to do? Well, I'm going to save the world. Can't risk you or anyone stopping it, even accidentally."

"Oh, really?"

"Have you been paying attention to weather reports lately? _Cosmic_ weather reports?"

Another moment of silence. "You mean the solar maximum," Kessler says then, a little tenser. "Experts say it will be manageable."

"Yeah, not so much, no," Desmond hums. "It's a Super Solar Flare. Ever heard of the Toba catastrophe? Like that. Happens every seventy five thousand years, it turns out, and the next one is in, oh… a couple of weeks."

"...I see," Kessler rumbles, and he sounds just _slightly_ disturbed by the news. "Some bad weather indeed."

Desmond snorts out a laugh. "Oh yeah."

"And you have the means to stop it?" Kessler asks.

"I think so. I hope so. It's still a work in progress," Desmond admits. "But I'm working on it."

"And how does your _work in progress_ actually work?"

"... Yeah, I have no idea," Desmond admits. 

Kessler lets out an impatient sound. "Then figure it out. Whatever it is, it will change the genetic makeup of thousands of people – when you use it, you need to know _what_ it is you're doing."

Desmond blinks at the dark sky. "That's… a good point, yeah. I'll try to figure it out," he says and then tilts his head. "Thousands of people, huh? They're your Conduits then. People with First Civilisation DNA?"

There's a moment of silence, and then Kessler demands sharply, "What are you talking about?"

Desmond grins. "Guess you don't know everything, then," he says. "That's comforting."

"I never claimed to know everything – _what_ is the First Civilisation?"

"I thought you knew, I really did. I mean, First Sons, right?"

"Desmond," Kessler growls.

Desmond laughs. "Ancient super advanced pre-humanity society of people. They made us in their image, sometimes posed as gods – or at least that's how it seemed to us, poor primitive humans. All that junk. I got their DNA, it's giving me extra sensory perception and stuff, so I imagine that's the Conduit gene. I'm sure you can figure out the rest, since you're so smart."

"You have awakened psychic abilities?" Kessler hums. "Interesting. What kind?"

Desmond hums. "I dunno how to describe it. It's - Eagle Vision. I can see things. People's allegiances and where important things are, what people have touched, stuff like that. I guess you could call it clairvoyance?"

"Hmm. That sounds more akin to psychometry or empathy. Can you sense psychic residue - see where people have passed, what they have done?"

Ezio could, in the end. Hmm. "Kinda, I guess?" Desmond muses slowly, as he sees Ezio in the corner of his eye, walking out of the darkness as though summoned. "Does it have a name?"

"Not exactly, but is a common ability of awakened Conduits. And did the members of the First Civilisation share these abilities?"

"Probably," Desmond shrugs, even though the guy can't see it, watching his accessor walk across the balcony and disappear. "I really thought you knew about this – didn't you know about Minerva's prophecy? How can you know about that, but not who she actually was?'

"I did, but I reasonably assumed it was given by a historic Conduit, not by a member of a different species," Kessler mutters. "I will need to look into this at length. Are there any of these First Civilisation members left?"

"Nah, they died out tens of thousands of years ago, but they left behind recordings, warnings, a whole bucketload of dangerous technology Abstergo is trying to get their hands on," Desmond says and hums. "And they're trying to use it to control people."

"As you do," Kessler agrees. "Hmm, perhaps I have been neglecting things, not paying attention to Abstergo and the Templar Order. I will have to rectify this."

Desmond snorts. "You have fun with that," he says.

"What will you do now?" Kessler asks.

"I'm going to steal some stuff, put together an ancient piece of technology, and probably die to save the world," Desmond says. "As is the will of predeterminism."

"And by willing it you make it so," Kessler says with a scoff. "Perhaps _don't_ set your heart to your own death, just yet."

Desmond frowns. "I thought it was destined," he says slowly.

"There's no such thing," Kessler answers. "Present shapes the future – and if the future was set in stone, I wouldn't even be here."

Desmond is quiet for a moment, digesting that. Didn't the guy _just say_ he didn't warn Desmond about the kidnapping because of predeterminism? "You're one contrary guy," he decides. "But I guess I can at least keep it in mind. Can I call you again, or are you going to kill this number?"

"... I'll keep it active until the solar event," Kessler decides, and then, after a short break, adds, "Find out what the ancient piece of technology of yours does before you use it, Desmond."

With that said, the guy hangs up.

"... Dick," Desmond sighs, before wiping the call from the phone's record and getting up to take it to the hotel reception desk.

* * *

It takes a couple of weeks before Desmond can call Kessler again, from another stolen phone – this time in Brazil, of all places. The privacy this time is a bit less private – they got just the one hotel room, and Shaun and Rebecca have commandeered about half of it for their equipment, and there's no handy-dandy balcony to hide on, so… Desmond takes his stolen phone to the rooftop, citing that he wants to get a bird's eye view of the city. It gets him some knowing looks, but no one objects.

Wonder if that means they're finally trusting him not to mess everything up by breathing wrong or something. Miraculously achieved mastery of assassin's skills or not, sometimes it feels like everyone thinks he's an idiot. And maybe he is. Here he is, calling a random cult leader. Desmond still hasn't told anyone about Kessler, or the fact that the guy is for real a time traveler who knows the future. It just… feels private. Something that in this mess feels like it's just his, something that's just _Desmond's_.

Which is probably bad, cult indoctrination type bad – but what _isn't_ about his life anymore? Is all secret societies as far as the eye can see, and Desmond is frankly beyond seeing the point.

Kessler takes his sweet time answering the phone, and again says nothing once he does.

"Normal people say hello or something," Desmond comments. "Do you never answer the phone normally?"

"Desmond," Kessler answers.

"That's my name, yeah," Desmond agrees. "How are things, how goes the… I don't actually know what you do, aside from the Beast business."

"Currently I am experimenting with some monkeys, who so far are not performing to my satisfaction," Kessler rumbles, and at Desmond's surprised noise he elaborates dryly, "The last one exploded."

"Uh. Okay? Poor monkey, what happened?"

"Clearly it could not withstand the experiment," Kessler says dismissively. "I will recalibrate and try again. Where are you?"

Desmond hums. "San Pablo. Where are _you?"_ He asks, wondering if Kessler would even tell him.

"Empire City. Have there been new developments?"

Okay then. "Well, I learned how to fire a gun in my sleep," Desmond says, looking to the side where Haytham is sitting by a ghostly table, meticulously cleaning his weapons while a floating lantern sways overhead. "I mean, I learned it while asleep, and can do it now while awake without any training. Which is – what it is."

"Mm. Animus is one hell of a drug," Kessler agrees with a deep, resonating laugh. "Were it not for the mental side effects, I would be using it for training here too. Unstable underlings aren't ideal for running business."

"Oh, you run a business? What kind?" Desmond asks, turning away from Haytham.

"I run several, with several objectives and methods."

"Ominous," Desmond says, but Kessler doesn't seem to feel like elaborating. Whatever, Desmond's not one to judge. After all, he's running with Assassins, who seem to be doing very little actual assassinating, and honestly, he's not sure why they're still using the old name. Even Templars upgraded with the times – and meanwhile the Brotherhood's here, sounding like a mix of a criminal organisation and a gang and acting like neither. Really, they should be called Anti-Abstergo Archeologists at this point.

Desmond abruptly realises he might be still a bit addled from the last Animus session and Juno's insane babbling.

"So," he says. "Did you look into the First Civilisation?"

"I did, yes," Kessler says. "Not that there is that much to find, the Templar Order and the Assassin Brotherhood have been nothing if not thorough in destroying and covering up information concerning them. Does the name Juno say anything to you?"

"... she's a mind-controlling megalomaniacal bitch with an agenda I'm starting to feel does not have the good of humanity in mind," Desmond says, gritting his teeth.

"Interesting. You have _seen_ her?"

"In a manner of speaking. What about her?"

"She is the reason First Sons was formed," Kessler says, thoughtfully. "Nearly five hundred years ago – breaking off as an offshoot of Templar naturalists, they turned away from the pursuit of First Civilisation technology and wanted to master their abilities instead – and an apparition of the goddess Juno told them how they could achieve this."

Desmond hesitates, walking back and forward a few steps. "That's… not good," he says, his stomach sinking. "You're Templars?"

"I turned the First Sons away from the pursuit of the occult, the religious and the mythic when I took over, many decades ago," Kessler says, thoughtful. "And as part of my takeover, I had many of the old texts destroyed, to discourage any further pursuit of nonsense. First Sons have dedicated their efforts to science ever since – which, admittedly, might have been hasty on my part. Either way, we are _not_ Templars."

Coming to lean against an enormous AC unit, Desmond blows out a breath. "If Juno started up your organisation, there was a reason," he says. "Somehow you serve her goal – and I think her goal is more aligned with the First Civilisation than, you know, the continued survival of humanity."

Kessler says nothing.

"She – she's in control of the thing that's going to save the world from the Solar Flare," Desmond says, closing his eyes. "And she's leading me by the nose to use it, I can feel it – whatever's going to happen after, it's going to serve her goals."

"And here I thought the First Civilisation was all dead and gone," Kessler says dryly. "Didn't you say they died tens of thousands of years ago?"

"Yeah, I don't think it matters. They could predict the future well enough to pre-record a half of a conversation that wouldn't happen until seventy five thousand years after they died – I'm not sure being dead currently is as much of a hindrance to these people as it should be."

"Hmm," Kessler rumbles thoughtfully. "And what do you suppose her goal then is, with the First Sons?"

"You tell me – what's the ideology of your cult? What do you people actually _do_?

Kessler is quiet for a moment. "Well," he says. "Isn't this a turn of events? Tell me – the device Juno is steering you to use, have you figured out what it does?"

Desmond sighs and opens his eyes. "It'll take the energy of the solar flare and transform it," he says, glancing at where Haytham was - he's gone now. "Channel it elsewhere. It'll happen on the 21st of December, by the way – we're pretty sure about that."

"The global Aurora Borealis, yes. It makes sense, now."

"Feel free to elaborate," Desmond says, a little irritable now. "That something you know from the future?"

"Yes – the solar event occurred, and in result there were Northern Lights seen all over the world. I thought that would be it – but if the force of the Super Solar Flare is as great as you think, then the Aurora Borealis would count only for a fraction of the energy. The rest must go elsewhere."

"And you think it's into people with First Civilisation DNA, turning them into your Conduits?"

"Yes," Kessler agrees. "That is why my experiments are failing so far – that cosmic switch has yet to be flipped."

Desmond leans his head back, staring for a moment at the cloudless night sky. There are no stars – the light pollution eats them up. 

Experiments, huh? Somehow Desmond doubts they were just with monkeys.

"Well, fuck," he murmurs. "What do the Conduits do?"

Kessler chuckles. "They possess extraordinary abilities. I am one of them – and I can travel in time. You figure out the rest."

"Shit," Desmond groans and runs a hand down his face. "And – and your Beast, is it a Conduit too? What did, what will it do?"

"Among destroying many cities and killing tens of millions of people, he broke the Moon, leading to spiralling environmental disaster that was about to wipe out most, if not all, life on Earth."

Desmond swallows. "Ah."

"Indeed," Kessler agrees, his voice darkly bitter. "So you see why I am working to prevent it, by any means necessary."

"So, uh… I do this, and it leads to – to that. The Beast, millions dead, broken Moon, global disaster. And if I don't do it, the Super Solar Flare will fry the Earth, leading to billions dead, shifting magnetic fields, unstable tectonic plates and thousands of volcanoes erupting out of nowhere. _Great_."

Kessler hums in agreement. "A tough choice. Question is, do you have the will to make it?"

"Fuck you, man," Desmond says, straightening up, glaring at nothing. "How about you figure out what it's about whatever _you're_ doing that serves Juno's goals, huh? Because I bet there's something that's gonna happen because of it, that will fuck us over just as much – if not more."

Kessler says nothing for a moment before sighing. "We're running out of time – 21st is not that far off. Can you call me again?"

"Will you have answers if I do?" Desmond asks.

"I will certainly be looking into things in the meantime."

"Fine," Desmond says, shaking his head. "I'll try."

"It is not my intention to doom humanity," Kessler says. "But I will do whatever it takes to stop the Beast. _Whatever it takes_ "

With that, the guy hangs up. Desmond winces, feeling the parting growl rattle in his ear. "Well, maybe I shouldn't hit the switch and fucking let us all burn, that'll stop everything, huh?" he mutters at the silent phone, to no answer. Then he heaves out a sigh. "Fuck."

This time Desmond doesn't bother taking the phone to the reception, but chucks it over the edge of the rooftop, watching it shatter on the street below before heading back inside.


	3. Chapter 3

"You know, I never got to cash in that big lottery win, I'm a little peeved about that," Desmond says to the silent phone, leaning back against a pillar and watching the people milling about. "Was there ever any chance of me actually getting that money?"

"There's always a possibility of extraordinary things to occur," Kessler says flatly. "That's a lot of noise in the background, where are you now?"

"Airport in Italy," Desmond says, watching impassionately as the guy he stole his current cellphone from starts to realise the thing is missing, rummaging through the pockets of his business suit in alarm. "I just freed my dad from Abstergo and killed a bunch of people – and got the last power source for the Grand Temple. Are you proud of me?"

"Utterly beside myself," Kessler half scoffs, half snorts. "Grand Temple being your human sacrifice altar? An apt name. You don't seem too concerned about security anymore."

Desmond checks his watch. "I've got a week to go," he says. "And honestly, I'm not sure I will be able to call you again after this – there's only one thing to find, and I doubt there will be traveling involved. So… yeah."

"I see," Kessler hums, and there's a sound in the background, the man putting something down, taking a few steps. "You still believe you will die, then?"

"It kind of seems more and more likely," Desmond sighs. 

"And you're satisfied with that?"

"Not particularly, but I've made my peace with the decision. I'll take your Beast and millions dead over the Flare and billions dead. And if it kills me, which it probably will, then… fuck, so be it."

Kessler says nothing for a moment, and there's a sound of door opening and closing. Desmond watches as the poor business suit guy starts going through his luggage in increasing panic. Then Kessler sighs in his ear.

"An admirable conviction," he says quietly.

"Thanks, doesn't really feel like it," Desmond admits. It's just choosing the less bad of two shitty options, and it isn't really even a choice. "How about you, how goes your quest to save the world?"

Silence and then a hum, deepthroated and unhappy. "I fear I will have to wait for you to finish, before I can advance further," he admits. "But… I believe I have figured out what it is that Juno wants to come from my work."

It sounds heavy, every word weighed down. "Oh?" Desmond asks, turning to look away from the business guy.

"First, to confirm my hypothesis… tell me about her."

"About Juno?" Desmond clarifies.

"Specifically her opinions on humanity – you said you interacted with her, in a manner of speaking. Can you remember specific things she's said?"

Desmond blows out a breath. "I dunno, man, there's a lot," he says. "There are these recordings in the Temple – they're so real, it's like she's _here_ in the present. I think she might be, in some way. But, uh… that's a lot about how were undeserving, how humans betrayed her kind – there was a slave rebellion and stuff – how the First Civ should have left us as we were, just dumb animals… stuff like that."

"You called her megalomaniacal. Would you call her genocidal?"

Desmond frowns at that, tilting his head to the side. There's an Assassin moving through the crowd, but he can't tell who it is - Ezio or Altaïr "I – haven't heard her prove it, but… I could totally see her leaning that way, yeah. There's this – condescending feel to her, like we're all so far beneath her that she doesn't even pity us, like we're not worth even that much to her."

"I see," Kessler rumbles.

"You, uh… it kind of sounds like whatever you're working on, it's going to have some… badness to it?" Desmond says warily, watching the memory slip into a group of people and disappear. "What is it?"

Kessler sighs, and it kind of sounds like a growl. "For many decades I have been working on a device that will activate the Conduit gene artificially and _powerfully_ , allowing an accelerated, nearly exponential power growth. I did this in order to create a Conduit strong enough to defeat the Beast ahead of time, before he had the chance to grow too powerful to defeat."

"... Okay. That sounds cool. Um…?"

"The device has some… side effects."

"Oh boy," Desmond sighs, running a hand down his face. "What?"

Kessler almost seems to hesitate before continuing. "The Ray Sphere works by taking the energy of people within a certain blast radius –"

"Oh my god, so it's like a _bomb_?" Desmond demands and then winces, as some people around him look up. Waving soothingly at them, Desmond turns away and says more quietly, "Kessler, what the fuck?"

"... It takes that energy and transfers it, _concentrates_ it, on the Conduit holding the Ray Sphere," Kessler continues, his voice growing slightly firmer. "Making them an incredibly powerful Conduit as a result. It is the _only_ way of creating a Conduit strong enough to defeat the Beast."

"Jesus fucking Christ, seriously?" Desmond hisses incredulously. "And how many people were you planning to sacrifice to make this Conduit, then?"

"As many as it takes," Kessler growls. "Millions, as opposed to billions dead, Desmond "

"Fuck, man. And that's the _only_ way, _really_? How about a good old-fashioned, I don't know, _explosive_? Just fire a missile at the thing."

"In my time, they dropped upwards of forty nuclear explosives of increasing power on the Beast. In answer, he released an energy blast that destroyed the Moon," Kessler says darkly. "Energy thrown at the Beast only makes him stronger. Firing a missile would do less than _nothing_."

Forty nukes – _Jesus_. Desmond stares at the floor for a moment, trying to come to terms with it, trying to wrap his head around it. "A-and that's, the – _fuck_ The blast thing, that's _not_ the bad thing about your… project?"

"In my estimation, when the blast occurs, there will be a significant spill of radiation, harmful, potentially lethal to normal humans," Kessler says. "I calculated for it – the radiation spill will most likely cause the activation of Conduits around the blast area, which will only work to my benefit, and those humans sickened and killed are acceptable casualties. However…"

Desmond covers his eyes with his hand, swallowing the sudden urge to vomit – fuck, what the hell did he get involved with? "What?"

"I have found out that the Ray Sphere radiation is transferable. It can infect those not in vicinity of the blast, who were never subjected to it through any other means except by coming in contact with a previously infected individual."

Desmond breathes in and out. "So – a plague. A radiation sickness plague."

"It's rather ironic, in a way," Kessle muses, wry. "I intended to quarantine Empire City under the guise of an aggressive epidemic, to limit travel to and from the city and keep the situation under control. The radiation sickness was going to serve well there. But now –"

"Fucking hell, man – are you even _hearing_ yourself?" Desmond demands. "You just – your thing is going to create a plague that kills humans and makes people with First Civ genes superpowered?"

"I do believe the superpower aspect of this is mostly _your_ doing," Kessler comments, not sounding particularly bothered. "As things stand currently, the Ray Sphere doesn't work. It has killed every subject I have tested it on. The Conduit Gene is still dormant – and it will be, until _you_ activate it."

Desmond swallows. "You're sure about that?"

"Fairly certain, yes. In many decades I have not encountered another true Conduit other than myself, only people with minor mental abilities," Kessler sighs. "There is a threshold we have yet to cross."

"And if we don't cross it…" Desmond trails away. No Conduits, no Beast and no Ray Sphere, whatever that is… but also no most of humanity, because they'd die in the solar flare. "Fuck, man."

Kessler hums in agreement, and there's a clink of a glass – he's drinking something, and Desmond just bets it's something strong. Fuck, he could use something strong himself. 

"Why are you even telling me this, man?" Desmond asks. "I mean – fuck. I don't – I don't even know what to think."

Kessler hums. "Quite honestly, I don't have that many people I can be honest with," he says. "None, in fact, that I can trust with this. You are far enough removed and helpless to change things, so I can allow this lapse in judgement."

Desmond almost bursts into hysterical laugh at that, quickly covering his mouth to stifle it. "Yeah, fuck you too, man. Jesus Christ, you're planning a mass murder of, what, _millions_? And – and that's just the start? I should come find you and put a blade in your heart."

"You're entirely welcome to try," Kessler says calmly, almost conversationally, and Desmond stifles a burst of giggles. There's a sigh, and then Kessler says, "I have worked towards this goal for most of my life," he says. "To find out now that doom _will_ come to humanity, no matter what."

Desmond blinks, and thought there's still a hysterical sort of tremor running through him, the laughter at least subsides. "Is there no other way?" he asks quietly. "No other way to defeat the Beast, except by making a Conduit strong enough to beat him?"

Kessler sighs, deep and rumbling. "The Ray sphere is loosely based on how the Beast's power works. He consumes energy in all forms, and grows with it," he explains. "There has never been a Conduit more powerful, nor do I think there ever will be. The people the Beast kills, he reduces into raw energy and costumes. Once it begins… there will be no stopping it."

"... Okay, so how is the Conduit supposed to defeat him? What's to stop the Beast from eating the Conduit?" Desmond asks.

"The rule of strong eating the weak," Kessler scoffs and then sighs. "If all goes according to plan, the Ray Sphere Conduit will gain an ability similar to that of the Beast – to consume energy and grow stronger. If he can get powerful enough before the Beast emerges…"

"The Ray Sphere Conduit will be able to consume the Beast?" Desmond asks flatly. "Gotta say, Kessler, your plan kinda stinks."

Kessler chuckles. "You have no idea," he murmurs.

They're quiet for a moment, Desmond glancing at the business guy. He's got someone else's phone now, and is making a call. There's a beep in Desmond's ear, which he ignores.

"You're not going to do it, right?" Desmond asks quietly. "You can't, not if it leads to humanity-killing plague."

"I am open to alternatives," Kessler rumbles with bitter amusement. "Feel free to come up with some."

Desmond draws breath and blows it out. Yeah. _Fuck_. "I… uh. There's still a week until – I'll… try to call you before the 21st, okay?"

"I'll be waiting," Kessler answers and then hums. "If, in the meantime, you manage to get something out of Juno…"

"I'll try," Desmond promises. "She's not exactly the forthcoming sort, though."

Kessler hums. "Good luck," he says and just hangs up.

Desmond quickly deletes the call and turns the phone off, before turning away to find a service desk to drop it at. Then, he thinks, he's going to find a bathroom and have a little panic attack.

-

They find the key to the Grand Temple, and with the realisation that This Is It, Demons rather swiftly runs out of fucks to give. "I have to make a phone call," he says, as the others get out of the van, heading for the cave, for the Grand Temple.

"Do we have time for this?" Bill asks, giving him a look.

"Dunno," Desmond says and throws him the little jade ring. "But I gotta make a phone call anyway, and there's no signal down there. I'll catch up with you, alright?"

They hesitate for a moment, Shaun and Rebecca exchanging looks behind Bill, but they all sense it coming – whatever would happen down there, there wouldn't be walking away from it. 

"Don't take too long," Bill says and throws the key back to him. "I doubt we will be able to open the barrier without you."

Desmond closes his fingers around the key, and – huh. Guess he's become a trusted member of the Brotherhood, in the end. "Shouldn't take long," he promises and shoves the key into his pocket, taking out his phone instead. It's still probably monitored, and Shaun and Rebecca would probably be listening in, but...

Yeah.

"Desmond," Kessler answers on the third ring, sounding almost out of breath.

Desmond laughs. " _Now_ you learned how to answer the phone almost normally. Progress."

"Is it time?" Kessler demands.

"Yeah. Yeah, it's time," Desmond agrees with a sigh. "Also, before you say anything incriminating, this call is probably being monitored, so, if there's something you wouldn't want a bunch of Assassins to know, maybe keep it to yourself."

"I can't keep this line active afterwards, you realise?"

"Yeah, well… I don't think I will be around to call it," Desmond says with a shrug and looks out, into the forest. "How are things?"

"I can't talk about it candidly while monitored," Kessler points out.

"Then talk _uncandidly,_ " Desmond tells him, rolling his eyes. "The thing we talked about last time – did you figure out any alternatives?"

Kessler sighs, heavy and resonating.

"I'll take that as a no," Desmond murmurs. "Fuck."

"And you, did you learn anything that might help?"

Desmond's turn to sigh, though his is far less impressive than Kessler's. "I tried. Sorry – got nothing," he says and leans onto the van, tilting his head up to look at the sky. "Just that we're various levels of fucked."

Kessler almost chuckles at that. "Indeed," he agrees. "Where are you now?"

"Turin, New York," Desmond says, looking around the hill side and sighing - there's young Connor, learning to hunt under his mother's watchful eye, under _Juno's_ gaze. Ouch. "Shouldn't tell you that, but unless you can teleport, I don't think it matters at this point."

Kessler hums, noncommittal, and Desmond closes his eyes, partially to block or the memory and partially out of dismay. The guy totally can teleport. Fuck.

"I have to do this," Desmond says quietly. Not that he thinks Kessler would try to stop him, not when the very existence of his precious Conduits hangs in the balance, but still… "I can't _not_ do this."

"Yes," Kessler agrees.

"You can still stop, though," Desmond says, shaking his head. 

Kessler is quiet at that for a long moment before saying, "Fucked if I do, fucked if I don't," he says. "And I cannot see which is the lesser evil here, if there even is such a thing. It is as though… this is predestined, and however hard we try to stop it, Destiny takes its toll, one way or the other."

"You don't believe in destiny," Desmond points out and turns towards the van

"Predeterminism is still in effect, and I fear stronger than ever," Kessler muses. "There are three ways this can end. What are the chances of it coming down to three equally terrible options? What is the probability? No. Once something is Seen…"

"It will Be," Desmond sighs. "I hate that. And I kind of hate you."

Kessler chuckles darkly. "I'm sure you do," he agrees. "Whatever gives you comfort."

"Screw you," Desmond says, running a hand down his face and then letting it drop. "I don't want to die," he then admits, quietly, like it's a secret, leaning against the side of the van.

"Very few do," Kessler hums. "It's the no way…?"

"I don't know," Desmond sighs. "It seems like a done deal, you know. Predestined and all that. But you knew that."

Kessler is quiet for a moment. "I don't know everything. No one does. There might still be a chance, Desmond – for both of us."

"Didn't take you for an optimist."

"I wouldn't be here if I wasn't," Kessler says with a dry chuckle.

Well. "I guess not," Desmond says and then hums, thoughtful. "I don't suppose you have another, uh… trip in you? Like the one you took, uh, before?"

Kessler is quiet. "I have considered it, but… no, I don't think so. It's – too expensive. I don't have the means to pay for the toll it takes anymore."

Yeah, Desmond kind of figured, but it never hurts to ask. "And I guess I can't pay the toll for you, huh," he says. "I mean, I am kind of a three times lottery winner here, I could maybe afford it."

"Three times? What other lotteries have you been betting on?"

"Oh, you know, the genetic lottery and the worst luck ever lottery. Really, I'm one lucky son of a bitch," Desmond says with a feeble laugh. "No dice, at all?"

"I'm afraid it doesn't work like that," Kessler says and sighs. "Even if I could… I wouldn't be able to bring you along for the ride."

"Well… yeah, okay. I had to ask."

"I know." There's another, even more awkward period of silence, and then Kessler speaks. "Conduits are… incredibly durable."

"I – uhh, okay?" Desmond asks, wary. And here he thought they weren't going to talk about sensitive stuff on the insecure channel.

"A Conduit can withstand incredible situations and circumstances. Pressures, forces, temperatures, currents… a properly activated Conduit can handle things that should normally destroy them."

Desmond frowns. Oh? "Properly activated," he repeats. "Huh."

"Yes," Kessler agrees, sounding almost pleased.

"And how – what does –" Desmond tries to ask, but there's no way to put it without it sounding very suspicious. Fuck it. " _How?_ "

"Naturally, the clue is in the name," Kessler says. "A Conduit _conducts_."

"That's _impressively_ unhelpful," Desmond says flatly.

"It's the best I can offer under the circumstances – and I believe time for you is growing short," Kessler says. "I hope you figure it out. And if you don't –"

"You blame yourself?" Desmond asks with a snort. "Will you mourn me?"

"Yes, yes, I'll shed a thousand tears for you," Kessler says dismissively. "But if you do die today, Desmond, then… thank you. For the gift you are about to give to the world, thank you."

Desmond isn't exactly a willing participant in it, but… "You're welcome."

"Good. Another thing – would you mind if I used your remains for my research?"

"Jesus _Christ_."

"It might prove invaluable in repairing the – flaw in my design. By my estimation, the readings from your corpse –"

"Dude, _come on,_ I'm not dead _yet,_ can you maybe refrain from desecrating my body until after it cools down?"

Kessler chuckles. "I'm serious," he says then. "And I normally wouldn't bother _asking_. May I?"

Desmond blows out a breath. What's the alternative – Assassins burn him, or Abstergo dissects him. "Alright, fine – if you really think it might help, then… sure, you can have my body. If you can find it."

"Thank you," Kessler says almost solemnly.

Desmond makes a face. "Don't do anything weird with it."

"Can't promise you that."

"Dick."

It feels like a goodbye – and Kessler is right, he is running out of time. Fuck.

Desmond is not ready. He can't bring himself to hang up.

"Good luck," Kessler says almost kindly, and then does it for him.

For a moment Desmond just stands there, listening to the silence, teetering on the edge. Kessler would be disconnecting the phone number, Desmond probably wouldn't be able to call him again, even if there was any time. And there isn't.

Desmond considers the phone and then takes off his slanted backpack, putting the phone inside it, tucked away with the Polaroids and the few other bits of stuff he owns. He wouldn't be needing it anymore, after all. He places the backpack in the van, before steeling himself and turning to the cave, and the spectres of ancestors, now waiting for him.

Time to meet predestination head on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued in a sequel.

**Author's Note:**

> I... don't actually know how to explain this one. It is a thing.


End file.
